


Stones vs. Beatles

by ohvienna



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohvienna/pseuds/ohvienna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fathers and sons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stones vs. Beatles

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal 1/29/2007.

John missed The Beatles. 

Most of the time, he classified himself as a Stones man. But before he hit his teens, his musical tastes were a different story. 

He remembered how much he used to love riding around in the car with his dad. When Jack had enough free time, they would drive together to a dusty sandlot near their home. He sat up in the front seat when it was just him and Jack. He liked it there best, because he got to see his dad’s hands as they expertly turned the wheel or maneuvered the stick shift. He would watch his foot as it eased on the brakes when the lights turned yellow or when he pressed on the gas, sometimes flying down an empty road just to hear his son laugh with delight. John couldn’t wait until he learned how to drive.

In the car they would listen to the radio, and sometimes Jack taught him about music. John soaked up the names of the bands and their songs, learning which ones were good and which ones weren’t worth his time. Whenever The Beatles came on, Jack always said the same thing.

_“Who are these guys?” asked Jack, turning up the volume._

_5-year-old John didn’t hesitate. “The Beatles!”_

_“And who are they?”_

_“The best band ever!”_

_“And don’t ever forget it, Son.”_

Other times they would put on a ball game if one was on, and when they got to the field, Jack brought out a portable radio so that they wouldn’t miss an inning. Most times they played catch and John would struggle to get his small hand to work his slightly oversized glove, other times Jack would pitch and John would practice his swing with a plastic bat and wiffle ball. They would go early so that no one was around, and the grass was still wet with the morning dew. He always came home with green-stained pants and dirt covering his sweaty face and hands.

He loved those days with his dad. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a good enough reason why they started going less and less. Maybe it was when John started noticing girls. Maybe it was when he was fourteen and he found that he was more surprised when his dad was at home for dinner than when he wasn’t. Maybe it was the intoxicating freedom that invaded his system when he turned sixteen, being able to go where he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. Or maybe he was just trying to prove something to himself. No reasons seemed good enough to him now. 

John took the smooth, green ball in his hand and turned it around a few times. The color was off, but the weight and size were perfect. He snapped his black, makeshift glove together with his thumb and fingers. He was going to have to make another one; this one was already worn out. Of all the things he didn’t bring onto Moya with him when he left Earth, he forgot to bring a baseball. He could have sworn he had packed a box with a few of them thrown in. He gave up searching years ago. 

He threw the ball up in the air and caught it with his bare hand. He brought his arm back and threw, watching the curve of its trajectory as it glided through the air, landing with a snap in the gloved hand of his ten-year-old son. D’Argo threw the ball back, much harder and on purpose, just to try and outdo his old man.

“Yeesh!” John feigned pain and shook his hand.  
.  
“Dad, let’s go find some food. I’m frelling starving.”

“Hey, watch the mouth, Sailor.”

John reached over to ruffle his son’s hair as he walked past, but D’Argo squirmed from under his fingers and took off at a run down the corridor, dragging his ungloved hand against the side of the wall. John watched his son and a familiar fear sprang up in his mind, bringing with it a dry taste in the back of his throat. It made him swallow hard. He remembered himself at that age, and he remembered the years that came soon after. 

“Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” he said to himself as he followed his son at a slower pace. An old knee injury had flared up again, just to make him feel even more like the aging old man he thought he was becoming. Sometimes he caught Aeryn looking at him while he was trying to pretend that his muscles weren’t aching just a little more than they used to, that it didn’t take him more time to recover from an injury than the day they first met. When their eyes locked she would squint and then turn away. An unspoken truth flashed between them, and, in that brief instant, he hated being human and what that meant. What it might mean for his son. What it will mean for Aeryn. 

“John? Are you coming?”

He looked up and for a second he remembered his mother’s voice calling him inside for dinner. He could almost feel the small, white stones on the path beneath his feet and the creak of the silver gate that lead to the back door of the first house he could remember living in. 

“Yeah. Be right there.”

He walked over to the table and surveyed the scene.

And smiled.

“Little D…”

“D’Argo!”

“Right. D’Argo. Pass me some of that Day-Glo mac and cheese.”

“Gatavissk root.”

“Yeah. Tastes like mac and cheese.” 

Just yesterday he could have sworn his son was only five years old. Two years old. He remembered how he used to be able to hold him in his arms at night before bed. Often, instead of putting him right down to sleep, he felt an urge to hold him tighter, just a little longer.

_“Little D, I want you to remember something, okay?”_

_D’Argo squirmed and blinked._

_“The Beatles are the best band ever.”_

_He walked over to the window and sat down, looking out at the empty space surrounding him and the stars in the distance. Glancing down at his son, he watched as his small hand grasped his forefinger. He smiled, and began to sing._

_“There are places I’ll remember…”_

_He stopped._

_“Wait. There are some schools of thought, little guy, that say that The Rolling Stones are the better band. Now…”_

John got up from the table to steal a quick kiss from his wife, planting his lips on her cheek as she popped the top off of a bottle of fellip nectar. Aeryn flashed a crooked half-smile his way as he grabbed for his already opened bottle. He took a swig, swallowed, and let out a satisfied sigh. Humming to himself quietly, he walked around the back of D’Argo’s chair, quickly tousling his hair along the way. D’Argo rolled his eyes and looked up from his plate, smiling.

“Hey, dad?”

“What’s up?”

“Can I try flying the prowler today?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“But Mom said that…”

“Little man, with me, you’re riding shotgun ’til you're forty.”


End file.
